


bewitched while the sun sets

by norvegiae



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Everybody Lives, Fluff, I really mean it, M/M, Marriage, Post-Canon Fix-It, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23328103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/pseuds/norvegiae
Summary: In the sunlight, James’ eyes are the golden colour of amber, and Francis thinks that all the horrors they have seen and lived through are made up for with this one shining moment.(A question, in a garden, on a warm afternoon.)
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 33
Kudos: 112





	bewitched while the sun sets

**Author's Note:**

> we're living in strange times. i thought some tooth rotting fluff was what we all needed. 
> 
> this is completely dedicated to my dear friend [Lenka](https://matt-j-freeman.tumblr.com) \- it was her idea and she graciously let me turn it into a fic. thank you!!
> 
> UPDATE 03/04/20 - now with [wonderful art!!!!](https://matt-j-freeman.tumblr.com/post/613867794707152896/if-you-havent-read-bewitched-while-the-sun) thank you Lenka <3

He hadn’t realised that he’d been asleep until he is suddenly awakened.

“Francis!” A loud voice in the hallway makes him jump and jerk upright in his seat, and he looks down at the floor, to where his book has fallen. James suddenly appears in the doorway and an amused smile spreads across his face. “Oh dear,” he says, grinning now, “I’ve woken you.”

Francis clears his throat and frowns a little, as if he was only in the middle of some philosophical pondering. “Not at all,” he replies, though his voice is thick with sleep. The light in the room is different, it is the golden sunshine of a late spring afternoon. He must have slept a good hour or so. He blinks up at James, who still has that amused expression on his face. “What do you want?”

James shrugs, affecting an air of great nonchalance, but the look and the way he holds himself are far too practiced. He wants something, and Francis is intrigued. “Will you come and sit outside with me?”

He crosses the room and holds out a hand to help Francis to his feet. Francis groans like an old man, and supposes that he is one now, and he stretches out his back. “If you like. What are you doing out there?”

James leans to press a kiss to his temple, still holding his hand. “Just sitting, so far. But I thought I might draw, while the light is nice.”

Francis hums in agreement, thinking of how much he wants to be in the fresh air and the sunshine after holing himself up in the drawing room all day. “Go and get your things, then.” He leaves him to dig out paper and pencils, and makes his way down the hall and out of the double doors that lead into the garden. He takes a moment to close his eyes and enjoy the feeling of the sun on his face. The air is sweet and still.

There is usually a wrought iron bench here on the flagstones by the back door, but for some reason, James has moved it onto the lawn, right in the shade of the horse-chestnut tree, which is heavy with broad green leaves and conical spires of white flowers.

Crossing the lawn and settling himself on the bench, Francis admits that it does afford a nice view of the house and the fields – these are nothing new to him now, but this new perspective is refreshing. A change is as good as a rest, as they say.

James eventually appears in the doorway and makes his way over, arms laden with drawing equipment. He dumps something into Francis’ lap – the book he was reading earlier. Francis watches as James sits down and arranges himself, absently stroking his fingers along the soft, worn edges of the book’s pages. “What are you going to draw?” He asks, once James has paper ready and a pencil poised in his hand.

James glances over at him and then up at one corner of the house, right under the eaves of the roof. He points with his pencil. “I think a swift is building a nest under the roof, have you noticed?”

Francis follows his gaze, squinting slightly. There is nothing to see, only the stone walls and the grey slate roof. Suddenly, however, a small bird darts from seemingly nowhere, from inside the wall, and is off towards the woods.

“There she goes,” there is a smile in James’ voice. Francis doesn’t need to look at him to recognise it. “She’ll be back in a moment or two. Thought I’d try and sketch her.”

Francis isn’t sure how James will accurately sketch a tiny bird who has just flown past them in a blur, but he leaves him to it, and thumbs through his book to find his page.

There is companionable silence between them for a while, save for the scratch of pencil on paper, and distant birdsong. Francis is engrossed in his novel again, but out of the corner of his eye he detects the movement of James’ head, as he looks from his sketching and up to the air, seeking out his little bird. Hardly the easiest of things to choose to draw, but James has always enjoyed a challenge.

Francis thinks he might frame it, when it is done and James is satisfied with it, and it can act as a reminder of this sunny afternoon.

He reaches the end of a chapter and decides he’s had enough for one day, dog-earing a page and letting the book fall closed. He looks over to one corner of the garden, where a clutch of apple trees is a burst of white and pink flowers. “We’ll have a lot of apples this year, I think.”

James hums, though Francis can tell he’s not really listening. He gets to his feet and wanders over to inspect the trees – the delicate flowers and waxy leaves, soon to be replaced with rosy red apples. Without thinking he snaps off a thin, short branch laden with flowers and makes his way back over to James.

“Here,” he says, holding out the branch.

James looks up suddenly from his sketching, and his expression of concentration smoothes out into a smile. “My, what a gentleman you are.” He reaches out with graphite smudged fingers to take the small branch. He seems to study it for a while, as if weighing it up. He strokes a fingertip along a tiny petal. All of a sudden he snaps the branch in half, into two even shorter sections, each studded with white-pink flowers.

Francis frowns, confused. “What was that for?”

“One for you, one for me,” James says, as if it’s obvious. He raises his eyebrows, and pats the bench beside him. “Come on, sit down.”

Francis does as he is told, and James reaches out to tuck one of the little branches behind Francis’ ear. He almost jerks in surprise at the velvet touch of petals against the skin of his cheek. He opens his mouth to protest, to say he is not nearly handsome enough to be able to wear _flowers_ without looking ridiculous, but he watches as James pushes his own hair back from his face, tucking it and the flowers neatly behind his ear. It looks much better on James than he is sure it looks on himself.

Despite his misgivings, Francis smiles at James, at James in his own garden, on his bench, under his tree. Wearing his flowers in his hair. “Satisfied?” He asks, reaching out to squeeze James’ knee.

“Quite,” James grins, crossing his legs and laying an arm along the back of the bench, the very picture of casual elegance. “Flowers suit you. We shall deck you out with more of them, in the future.”

Francis snorts a laugh and feels himself reddening. “Hardly.” He ducks his head, lifts a hand to check the flowers are still securely in place. He gestures at James’ sketchbook. “Let’s have a look then.”

James passes it over, his eyes on Francis’ face, as if to gauge his reaction as Francis studies the drawing. It’s impressive, as James’ drawings always are, a delicate bird on the wing, her dark eye determined and knowledgeable, confident as she streaks through the sky, on the lookout for-

“Francis?”

Francis tears his eyes away from the sketchbook and up to James, who looks oddly perturbed all of a sudden. He has drawn his arm back from the bench to clench his hands together in his lap.

“Yes?”

James chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, before he clears his throat. “I was wondering if I might ask you something.”

Setting the sketchbook down on his lap, Francis straightens, ignoring how loudly his heart seems to be beating, and how his mind is suddenly leaping to conclusions. “Go on then.”

“You’re happy to have me around, aren’t you?”

Undisguised shock floods Francis’ face, and James’ mouth twists as he tries to stop a smile, though he still has a nervous look to him. Francis feels dread settle heavy inside him.

“Of course I am!” He reaches out to squeeze James’ knee again. “What’s happened, what’s brought this on?”

James’ hand covers his own. “And you love me?”

Francis’ mouth falls open as if to speak, but he can’t find the words for a moment. “You know I do, I say it often enough, don’t I?” He squeezes James’ knee tighter, shaking it a little, as if to shake sense back into him.

James is smiling again, but this is no less confounding than his strange questions. He takes Francis’ hand off his knee and cradles it in his palm, running his fingers over it with his other hand. “You love me, and you comfort me...you’ve been with me in sickness and in health...” Francis’ confused expression must be very amusing indeed, because James’ smile appears to grow. “Seems to me we’ve been living in sin, Francis. Maybe we should remedy it.”

Francis blinks, and there is a tight, excited nervousness growing in his stomach. “Remedy _how_?”

There is mischief in James’ countenance now, and he shifts, turning to face Francis more fully, taking his hands in each of his own. “We’ve just to promise.”

“Promise _what_?”

James huffs a laugh. “Don’t be obtuse. It’s quite simple. You’ve heard people doing this before, I’m sure.”

Francis makes no reply, still with a face of open mouthed confusion, trepidation, _excitement._ He is sure his heart has never beat faster than it is now, so loud in his ears that he can barely hear James, so loud that he is sure James must be able to hear it too.

“Come on then,” James says, squeezing his hands – his palms are sweaty, Francis can feel, he’s nervous too. “It’s just one question to answer, though it’s rather long, I think I can remember the words-” He clears his throat again and briefly his eyes flick away; to follow his swift no doubt, returning to her nest, adding to it, making it stronger.

He looks again at Francis and smiles. Francis smiles back. “Nothing to do but say it, I suppose, I feel a damned fool now-”

“ _James,”_ Francis croaks, surprised at the sound of his own voice. “Put me out of my misery.”

James laughs, and adopts the vague look of an actor on the verge of a soliloquy, his smile secure enough on his face that all trace of nervousness vanishes. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband,” – Francis grips his hands very tightly at this, tight enough that his knuckles go white, but he doesn’t dare speak – “to love him, comfort him, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Francis takes a deep breath.

“Well?” James urges, shaking his hands as if to bring him out of a reverie, to wake him from a dream.

“Yes,” Francis pushes the word out with a rush of breath. “I do. Or- or I will, whichever one it is. Yes.”

The sun is setting, it is nearly at the horizon now, and it is peeking through the trees to shine on them. James’ eyes are the golden colour of amber, and Francis thinks that all the horrors they have seen and lived through are made up for with this one shining moment.

James is looking at him expectantly.

“Christ,” Francis starts, realising. “Don’t make me say all that, I can’t-” He shakes his head, he has to get it out. “Will you have me, James? Will you do it?”

“Yes,” James says, a hand on Francis’ cheek now, and he’s already halfway in for a kiss when he adds, “I will.”

Francis clings to him like a man drowning.

“There,” James murmurs eventually, because who knows how long they’ve been kissing – “now we’re married.”

Francis laughs, though he feels as exhausted as he’s ever felt. “It’s that easy, is it?”

“It’s that easy,” James confirms. The flowers have fallen out of his hair, and Francis isn’t sure where they’ve gone. He takes his own and puts them behind James’ ear instead. “Don’t know why everyone makes such a fuss.”

Francis agrees, although he very much likes the idea of putting on his finest clothes and taking James to a church to get the job done there. It’s not possible, however, and they’ve already done it in any case, and there’s nothing any vicar can do to make it any more real.

“People like to make a fuss,” he says softly, aware now that the sun has dipped below the horizon, casting the garden in complete shade, and the air is growing chilly. He lifts a hand to stroke through James’ soft hair. “I should like to make a fuss of you.”

James leans into his touch, and he smiles archly. “I will insist on it.”

Francis’ hand moves to his cheek, his jaw, he strokes the delicate curve of his ear. “Shall we go inside?”

“Yes,” James breathes, turning his head to press a kiss to Francis’ wrist. He lifts his hands to grasp at Francis’ waistcoat. “But I want another kiss from my husband, first.”

Francis is, as always, happy to indulge.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so?? hope that wasn't too awful. this is the same AU as [nevermore alone upon the threshold of my door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721872), set some time later.
> 
> find me on tumblr - norvegiae.tumblr.com


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